


Our Lady of Sorrows

by violetlolitapop



Series: Bullets [5]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, i started writing this in 2009, it's like a cold war spy au, takes place in the 70s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 03:17:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18357509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetlolitapop/pseuds/violetlolitapop
Summary: Oh, how wrong we were to think that immortality meant never dying.





	Our Lady of Sorrows

_Morocco, 1971_

The blankets are the first to go.

It doesn’t matter that they’ve left the window wide open, or that the wind is brisk and biting. They manage to create their own sweltering heat just between their writing bodies and mussed sheets.

They’ve only just met again, some hours before, and already they’ve acted on their lustful nature.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! You’re gonna break the fucking bed, you fucking fuck!”

The wood below them creaks as the headboard hits the wall harder and harder than it had before. Alfred feels his temper start to rise. He knows a bait when he sees one. He reaches his hand up from where it had been clutching the linen and digs his nails into the other’s shoulder. Hard.

It makes Ivan stop instantly.

“The hell is this for!” he cries out, and wrenches away.

If it hadn’t been for the hold Alfred has with his legs wrapped around Ivan’s own thick waist, there’s no doubt that Ivan may have slipped out of Alfred all together.

As it is though, Ivan only sits up as best as he can with his cock still buried in Alfred’s warmth and glares down at the man below him with narrowed eyes. His hair is plastered to his forehead and his skin is tinted with a healthy pink from the exertion. Alfred usually likes this look, if only because he is usually the reason behind it, but not this time.

“I said,” he growls out, each word enunciated, “that _you_ are gonna _break_ the _fucking bed_ you _fucking fuck_!”

It seems like an eternity passes between them where Ivan only continues to glare down at him, and in return Alfred does nothing more than glare back. The sounds of their heavy breathing begins to calm down, and the adrenaline running through their veins begins to die down, but it doesn’t leave them just yet.

“I never thought this to be a problem before,” Ivan says.

Before Alfred can even make a comeback, Ivan thrusts forward hard, and it catches him off guard. Alfred’s voice hitches in his throat and he throws his head back. The orgasm that had been simmering just underneath his skin is boiling up again. The bed goes back to creaking, but if Ivan isn’t worried about it, then neither is he.

He’ll gloat later if it actually does break.

Alfred clenches on to the bedding again. His ankles lock behind Ivan, settling again into the dip of his lower back and pressing hard - as if that alone will bury him deeper into Alfred's warmth.

He shudders. He can feel a tight knot settle in his lower belly creating so much tension that his toes are curling and uncurling and curling again. It's as if they're moving to chase after the reward of an orgasm, but the prize is kept just that far away and remains unattainable.

Alfred is not a patient man, not when its for his own selfishness. His right hand unclenches the bedding, and slaps heavy against his stomach. There is no teasing downwards, no feather touch ghosting against his skin. What he wants is a hot release, and he wants it now.

Before he can even grasp at himself, Ivan catches his wrist and lurches forward. He pins Alfred's hand above his head, burying himself so much deeper that it punches out a guttural moan that echoes low in the room from the both of them. But it doesn't stop him.

Ivan keeps a tight hold on his wrist, gripping it even further and causing Alfred to flinch a little as he lowers his body down.

He's taller than Alfred (oh, how he hates to admit that), and because of that he’s able to press himself flat against the front of Alfred’s body, sprawl easily on top of him and match the width of his torso, match the muscles carved into his abdomen and arms. Ivan grabs his chin with his free hand, and forces his head to the side.

Alfred does nothing but gasp, and shiver when Ivan presses his mouth to his ear.

“You come on my cock,” he growls, heavy and husky. “And only my cock.”

“Yeah?” Alfred scoffs. “What if I said your cock wasn’t enough?”

Ivan pulls away a little, just enough to lap at a bit of skin behind his ear before pinching it sharply with his teeth. Alfred hisses from the pain, but his toes curl in all the same.

“I will show you what is enough,” Ivan says, and shifts himself upwards.

The sudden, jarring movement causes him to hit against Alfred’s sweet spot dead on, and leaves the tip of his cock brushing against it just barely, teasing. Ivan grabs a strong hold on Alfred’s thighs and keeps a steady eye contact as he rocks back and forth, achingly slow and with purpose. Alfred can’t help it, he whines with how different the speed is now, he had been so close before and now it feels as though he’s being punished for being impatient.

(And knowing Ivan, that’s probably exactly what he is doing.)

The speed doesn’t pick up, but the force of Ivan’s thrusts do, and Alfred can feel his imminent release buzzing just below his skin. The slow burn and force of it all has his eyes fall shut, roll back into his head even and almost panting. He wants to come so badly, wants to let go and come all over both of them.

So much so that he doesn’t even realize he says so aloud, again and again.

“Is that the proper way to be begging?” Ivan laughs. “Pathetic.”

“Shut the fuck up, and just fuck me,” Alfred demands. “You want me to come on just your cock? Well, fuckin’ make me come!”

Alfred thrusts backwards, the first bit of participation that he’s done all night that isn’t lying on his back to be deliciously fucked out of his mind and he clenches around Ivan’s length just enough to get him to falter and does it again and again. He’s goading him, in his own way that he knows to get the other to take him senseless.

It works. It always does. Ivan bares his teeth a little as he picks up his pace and snaps his hips forward. Alfred is thrown back a little, and is left to do much more than be fucked into a mindless frenzy and lose himself in the sensation of over stimulation. Every thrust has him gasping and grabbing to hold on to something. At some point it’s almost like drowning, being unable to catch his breath and with only the realization that something is closing in on him and all he has to do is just let go of that little bit keeping him grounded, and allow him to be swallowed whole.

When he does, it hits him hard. His cock jerks against his belly, the tip swollen red from holding back for so long and he comes in harsh spurts that splatter against his skin like an obscene painting. Alfred’s entire body is seizing and he feels his limbs go numb, he’s come so hard, harder than he ever has before and is reveling in the fact. He laughs, breathless and humorless, and is cut off harshly by Ivan’s continued frenzy in search of his own release.

Ivan lets go inside of him, his own breath laboring and heavy, and comes with a grunt so carnal that Alfred feels himself begin to twitch in interest. Considering how long they’ve been going at it, and how tired his body feels after such an intense orgasm, it’s surprising, to say the least.

The bed collapsing underneath them is only second to that. It’s so sudden and there is no warning, only a low creak before wood splinters violently and the frame comes apart entirely. It does startle them enough that the both of them yelp when the frame hits the floor. They lay perfectly still, surprised and look to each other with disbelief. Well, Ivan is in disbelief, anyway, Alfred looks as if he had been waiting for it to happen.

“I told you,” Alfred says between breaths. “You were gonna break it.”

Ivan scoffs and sits up. He uses Alfred’s shoulder to do so, and presses a little too hard against the other that causes him to slap it away. Alfred tries to throw him a glare, but it only puts on that insufferable amused smile on Ivan’s face.

“What? Such little bit make you hurt?” Ivan chuckles. “After what your ass goes through just now, it should be easy. I like to hear you explain your boss why you will walk funny later one, yes?”

“You’re so goddamn annoying,” Alfred grouses and sits up himself.

Ivan says something, but Alfred doesn’t catch what it is. He’s speaking too low under his breath, and in any case, Alfred is more concerned with the series of pops his back does when he stretches it out. His muscles are sore. Relaxed, and without tension, but they are sore. What a hell of a workout.

“How long you got before you need to get out of here?” he asks.

“Aw. Are you wanting to cuddle?” Ivan teases, and Alfred reaches over to grab the ashtray on the bedside table.

He’s quick, too fast to even believe considering how sluggish being fucked so roughly should have left him, but he still moves with lightning fast reflexes and chucks it straight at Ivan’s face. It should have struck him, dead center, but it doesn’t reach its target. Ivan backhands it straight out of the air and sends it flying off somewhere in the room where it lands with a crash as the porcelain hits the tile.

“You should treat items of hotel much nicer than this,” he scolds. “Typical American.”

“Typical American,” Alfred repeats, mockingly. “Have I mentioned how much I fuckin’ hate you.”

“Hm, yes, at least twice before. Nowhere near record.”

“It was a rhetorical question,” says Alfred, but he lets it go. Nothing else much to do about it.

Alfred throws his legs off the side of the mattress - or rather he slides them off, there’s not much sense in doing anything but since it’s one box spring away from being on the bare floor. His thighs are sore and he rubs the muscles there in comfort as he stands and stretches his entire body out. He knows that Ivan’s eyes are on him, he can tell by now what they feel like.

(It’s how they keep getting into situations like this.)

Alfred never did get into the habit of showering after their encounters. He didn’t trust being in a vulnerable position with the other man still present, and despite everything, he still doesn’t. Ironic, maybe. Unsurprising, not entirely. All the same, he picks up his white button up and slips it on over the cooling sweat still on his body. It’s not a pleasant feeling, but he’s grown used to it.

(And isn’t that thought, honestly.)

Ivan is doing something in the background, but Alfred puts on the front of being indifferent to it. Instead he rummages through the clothing on the floor until he’s able to find his blazer, and from that he pulls out a pack of cigarettes and takes one out for himself. He doesn’t offer one to Ivan, pointedly.

“I will be using shower,” Ivan announces, and strides past him in all of his naked glory.

“Knock yourself out, Russki,” Alfred says around his cigarette, not batting an eye.

Ivan doesn’t have a problem with putting himself into a vulnerable position, apparently. And Alfred would be lying if he said that he didn’t expect an attack to come from the bathroom the first time (or the second, or third, or fourth…) they’ve done this and kept his guard up (and gun close) until the other was visible again. Nowadays though, they’ve done this so often that while Alfred does keep his guard up, he is more relaxed, and that’s more or less why he’s able to focus more on finding his lighter, than keeping his eyes trained on the other room.

When he does find it, he lights up the cigarette and inhales deeply. The flavor of tobacco and nicotine ground him a sense that is parallel to be manhandled by a Soviet. Or at least close to it.

The water is running, and Alfred grabs a different ash tray from the dining table and moves over to the open window. His room and board here in Morocco is much nicer than anywhere else he has stayed. The climate is cool, during the early spring at least, but that may have to do more with being closer to the coast is anything else.

Still, it is the only boarding he’s received with such lavish furnishing, even being given a kitchen! Honestly, almost like a real home. His favorite part though is the windowsill. Large enough for him to sit on, long enough for him to stretch out on. He enjoys sitting here at night, smoking, and watching. Probably not the most stealthy habit to have in his line of work, but it’s a testament to how far he’s already gone to having a good time.

The cigarette is brought back up to his lips.

(Inhale.)

(Exhale.)

(The water keeps running.)

It’s… unusual. Really. Alfred understands and knows that an arrangement like this is… unusual. If not entirely discouraged. Both of these men are on opposite sides of a war with no direct violence. Both of these men play small parts in the elaborate game that’s been set up long before either one of them showed up on the scene.

He flicks his ashes out onto the street.

(It’s late. There is hardly anyone around.)

He’s just about finished with his cigarette when Ivan reappears. The water has been shut off for a minute and it’s been quiet right up until the bathroom door opens again. Ivan is still naked, using the complimentary towel to dry off his hair rather his body.

Alfred rolls his eyes and smashes the butt into the ash tray. It’s not like he’s dripping wet, but still, inconsiderate.

Another cigarette is pulled from it’s back. The lighter sparks. Clothes are rustled and eventually a zipper goes up. Nothing else.

“Is your beard waiting somewhere else or downstairs again?” Alfred asks.

“My… beard?” Ivan asks, and rubs his hand against his jaw.

“No,” Alfred laughs, and if that isn’t even the most strange part of this night. “Nevermind. Just another bit of American colloquialism you can share with your comrades. Well, if you dare, I suppose.”

Ivan’s eyes narrow at him; he’s searching for the bait, but whether or not he finds it, or if it’s even there at all, is unknown. He slips on his own shirt and continues to dress. Alfred turns his head to blow the smoke out of the window, but it’s quick to snap back when he hears the cocking of a gun.

His grip is hard around the ashtray, his eyes are wide, and Ivan is standing off to the side, checking his piece before sliding it away back into his holster. Slowly, he pats it safe and faces Alfred with a smirk.

“Scared?” Ivan asks.

“Shut up,” Alfred growls and relaxes again.

Ivan finishes redressing and when his shoes slip on, Alfred sets his cigarette down on the tray. He doesn’t put a name to what he feels in these moments. They’re an inevitability and he knows this well, but he doesn’t feel like he needs to acknowledge them.

(Who knows what he might have to come to terms with if he does.)

“I will see you later then, Cowboy,” Ivan says to him before he reaches the door.

“Not if I see you first, Russki,” Alfred replies.

Ivan hum. “We will see who sees who first, yes?”

Alfred doesn’t reply, at least not with words. They do the same back and forth each time, it never changes, or at least it rarely strays from their script. He does roll his eyes and he doesn’t watch as Ivan does leave the room, and he barely registers the click of his own hotel door.

And that’s that. Not much of a goodbye. No heartfelt farewell. There really is no need. When they meet again it will be as it always is. Inconsequential. Unplanned. Unprepared. It will begin the same, and will end the same, and it will always take place inside of Alfred’s apartments, never where ever it is Ivan stays when his own government sends him out on jobs so similar to Alfred’s own.

(Once Alfred made a joke about Ivan not staying anywhere, made the implication that KGB agents don’t need housing because they’re made feral and adaptable. The way Ivan laughed, was a little more than unnerving.)

Alfred doesn’t pick up his cigarette again, he lets it smoke. He remains on the windowsill, still looking out. When Ivan makes an appearance down on the street below, he is not alone. His partner is by his side, as she usually is. They never keep her in the loop as to when they disappear like they do, but nine times out of ten she will find where they are. That in itself should concern Alfred more than it does, because the third time they did this, the only thing holding Natalya back from slicing Alfred’s neck while riding Ivan’s dick, was Ivan yelling at her to let him finish first.

The conversation after that, well, that left everyone unhappy with each other.

(She never did take a liking to him, and why she allows him and Ivan to go on as they do is anyone’s guess, but as long as she doesn’t come for him in the middle of the night, Alfred is fine with letting her be in on whatever goes on between the two men.)

It’s only when the two are long gone and Alfred’s cigarette is just a butt on the ashtray now does he realize he still has a broken bed to deal with.

“You goddamn commie sonuvabitch,” he curses to the empty room.

There’s no way around it. It’s him that’s gonna have to pay for the damages. He curses again. He’ll get Ivan back for it.

Next time.

**Author's Note:**

> -i remember i started writing this because of a fanart i saw on 4chan of all places
> 
> -early hetalia days were wild
> 
> -i think this verse was supposed to end with their respective governments getting rid of them because they become a liability?? it was wild i know that.


End file.
